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“Rester.”
Near stood in the doorway of the small kitchen the SPK headquarters provided the agents with. Rester sat with Gevanni at the table. They’d clearly been engrossed in something; the cards spread on the table and snacks divided into separate piles pointed to a remarkably low stakes game of cards. Rester looked past Gevanni’s head, and Gevanni, who had been sitting with his back to the door, turned to look at his much younger boss standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes with the sleeves of his white button up shirt.
“You’re not in bed,” Near stated. His voice sounded a little more hoarse than usual, the few hours of sleep had obviously gotten the better of his vocal chords.
“No, I lost track of time hustling Gevanni in blackjack.”
Near studied the distribution of snacks on the table, probably compensating for the lack of chips, the hand Gevanni was dealt, the hand Rester had as the dealer. “You should stay.”
Rester cracked a smile at Near’s quick analysis of the situation. “ You’re not in bed either,” he stated.
“I can’t sleep.” Near adjusted his sleeves. A meaningless effort considering he never bothered to button the cuffs. Any adjustment immediately came undone by the next movement.
“Alright,” Rester placed the deck of cards in his hands on the table and turned his attention back to Gevanni. “I’ll know if you cheat.”
Rester crossed the small room and passed Near in the doorframe, only to look back when he realised Near didn’t follow. “Near?”
“I’d like to see how this plays out, actually,” Near answered, his eyes still fixed on the kitchen table.
Rester exchanged a puzzled look with Gevanni. “I didn’t know you were into blackjack.”
“I’m not.” Near pulled up a chair and sat, pulling one leg up onto the chair immediately. “I respect it as a game, though. I appreciate the statistics of it, even if it does come down to luck in the end.”
Rester returned to his seat at the table and reclaimed the deck. “Alright.”
About half an hour passed, and Gevanni won maybe twice out of several, several games.
“How is that even possible?” Gevanni huffed in frustration after another bust.
“Just be glad you’re playing for party snacks and not actual money,” Rester replied in a halfhearted attempt to console his colleague as he raked in his winnings. Near hummed in agreement and extended his hand for one of the snacks, which Rester obliged with a goldfish cracker. “I thought you didn’t like these kinds of snacks.”
“I don’t. They’re terribly dry,” Near answered and held the fish shaped cracker in his eyeline with two fingers. He increased the pressure on it and quickly crushed it between his index and thumb. “You shouldn’t be too upset, Gevanni, you’re not missing out on much.”
Gevanni watched Near reduce the goldfish to crumbs and extend his hand towards Rester again, who now placed a tissue in the empty palm. “Well, I happen to like them.”
Near squinted skeptically. “Then why play when the odds are stacked against you? Just go to the store.” He carefully wiped the dust and crumbs from his fingers. “It’s not like you’ll win. It all comes down to luck. It’s basically guesswork.”
“It tastes better earned.”
“Gevanni, don’t be stupid.”
Gevanni only shrugged in response and handed his cards to Rester to shuffle back into the deck. “I don’t know, Near, sometimes it’s just as well to play the game and have a good time. The losses make the occasional win that much sweeter.”
Near stared at Gevanni for a moment, then turned his attention to the shuffling Rester. “Commander Rester, don’t let Gevanni enter any casinos.”
Rester shook his head. “He’s a grown man, he can spend his free time however he likes. You can’t order him to keep away from casinos.”
Near frowned a bit at the clarification, then stared at Gevanni, who held his gaze for a moment before looking away. “Can I strongly advise him?” Near asked.
“I suppose. That won’t set anything in stone, but you’ll have done your part.” Rester set the deck down on the table. “Want me to deal you in?”
Near thought about the proposition for a good long moment. He looked like he might never reply, and his eyes fell shut briefly. “No, thank you.” He rubbed his eyes, again with his sleeves. “I would like to watch.”
“Are you sure?” Gevanni asked, exchanging a glance with Rester. “I can always bring you back to bed, don’t force yourself to stay awake for our sake,” Rester added. The kitchen clock told a time close to midnight, and Near really hadn’t gotten much sleep yet considering he’d turned in for the night at exactly 10 pm.
“I don’t make unsure decisions,” Near pulled his second leg up onto the chair and tucked his chin into it. His eyelids fluttered again, not quite shut yet.
Gevanni’s questioning look was answered with a dismissive shrug of Rester’s shoulders. There was no use arguing with Near, he was their superior at the end of the day, and the last thing either of them needed was to be on Near’s bad side for a day. Rester gently tapped the deck on the side of the table to even out the cards and had Gevanni place his bet.
It only took a few rounds for Near to fall asleep in the chair, his head resting in the arms he’d folded on his knees. Rester glanced over occasionally, continuing his game with Gevanni for a couple rounds more.
“Are we just gonna let him sit there?” Gevanni asked quietly. His attention had been diverted from the game anyway, the unusual image of his sleeping boss in the chair next to him far more interesting. The contrast struck him most, he supposed. The calm, collected young man, who seemed so serious most of the time, sitting at the kitchen table, softly curled up and overtaken by sleep. Gevanni supposed this was a very regular sight for Rester, as he did act out a rather caregiving role towards him.
Rester shook his head. “Of course not. I’ll bring him to bed in a minute.” He gestured at the cards Gevanni had managed to ignore. “Hit or stay?”
“Oh, uh…” The man pondered over the question for a moment, his gaze drifting over to Near asleep in the chair more than once. He remembered what Near had advised him earlier, and even though it didn’t apply anymore… “I think I’ll stay.”
Rester nodded and placed the face down card of the dealer’s pair face up. “Good call. 17 / 16. You win.”
“Hey, would you look at that,” Gevanni chuckled airily. “I think that’s a good place to stop. I’m gonna make myself a drink, you want one?”
“No, I’m good.” Rester waved his hand dismissively and stood, collecting the cards from the table and setting the deck in its designated spot on one of the shelves. “I’m going to bring Near to bed.”
Gevanni nodded and Rester gently shook Near’s shoulder. He earned a quiet mumble, then with another shake a slightly louder, far more protesting whine. “Come on, Near, up,” Rester instructed with a soft tone, his hand reaching under his arm to help him uncurl himself. Near moved slowly, his eyes barely squinted open to orient himself. He gripped onto Rester’s arm as he pulled himself off the chair, his fingers dug into the fabric of the much taller man’s shirt. Rester led the way out of the kitchen area and to Near’s room down the hall.
Gevanni moved through the kitchen quieter now, fixing himself a small drink to sit and wait for Rester to return. Rester always brought Near to bed. He tended to him carefully, made sure he ate, drank, slept enough, ensured his comfort and wellbeing. In return Near gave him all the trust he could muster. Knowing even just a fraction of Near’s history, trust was about the most valuable thing he had to offer.
He mused if anybody else had taken care of Near in the past, though the way Near latched onto Rester, he concluded probably not. He would never dare ask, though. Even if Near’s trust laid in Rester, Gevanni’s trust laid in Near, and he trusted that Near would share when he felt safe enough to. Even if he didn’t, Gevanni had heard enough about Wammy’s House and L to know how difficult and secretive an operation Roger ran. Strict secrecy toward outsiders was just part of the daily routine, it had to be.
Rester returned to the kitchen when Gevanni had already finished about half of his drink. “Things go okay?” Gevanni asked, idly swirling the liquid in the glass like he had been for a while now.
Rester nodded. “Not a problem, I doubt he’ll even remember getting back to bed in the morning, he still seemed quite out of it,” he reported and crossed the small room to get to the fridge. He fished a small bottle of water from the door while Gevanni ruminated on a thought he couldn’t seem to get past his lips.
“Does Near seem kind of… off to you lately?” He finally asked, only turning his body to face Rester by the fridge after the question had been posed.
“Off?” Rester turned the plastic lid on the bottle with a crack. “How so?”
Gevanni already regretted the question. “You know,” he started, pausing immediately after to adjust his posture. He grabbed his glass by the rim and crossed his arms over the backrest of the chair. “Tired, I guess. Kind of curt. More than usual, I mean.”
“He has trouble sleeping,” Rester stated and took a sip from the bottle. Tiny drops of condensation had begun to form on the outside of the plastic. “But that’s nothing new, he’s had sleep issues for as long as I’ve known him, probably longer.”
“Huh. Probably nothing then.” Gevanni stared into his glass. Still, the reply didn’t quite satisfy him. “He’s been waking up a lot, though. I mean, it’s excessive, even for his standards.”
Rester hummed in agreement. “Can’t say I haven’t noticed. His eyes seem kind of bloodshot, it’s like he’s not sleeping at all.”
“He’s asleep when you leave him though, right?” Gevanni raised his head to look at Rester, who’d been blankly regarding the wall.
Rester glanced at Gevanni from the corner of his eye before closing them. “Of course. I stay until he’s out. He’d let me know if he was still awake.” He crossed an arm over his chest, the other still holding the bottle. “But I hear him leave his room a lot. Normally he’d come to my room or knock on the door, but he hasn’t been doing that much lately.”
“Growing out of it, maybe? He’s what, 18? It’s not inconceivable,” Gevanni suggested with a weak shrug.
“It’s not, but Near’s too habitual to just stop doing something so quickly.” Rester tapped the bottle with his index finger, chewing on his concern and the inside of his cheek. Tiny drops of condensation merged into larger water droplets. “I don’t know. I’m keeping an eye on it, though. Don’t worry about it too much.” A droplet glided down the bottle and dropped to the floor.
Gevanni huffed, a little taken aback. “I’m not worried. Nobody here knows him better than you.” He took a long sip from his glass, lingering in it before emptying the last of the liquid. “I’m turning in for the night,” he said as he stood from the chair and placed his glass in the sink. “You know how Halle gets when I turn up later than she does.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve seen it. That’ll be the CIA in her,” Rester twisted the cap on the bottle shut and crossed the room to the door. “Goodnight then, Stephen.” He gave a short wave and walked out into the darkened hallway behind him.
“Night, Anthony,” Gevanni echoed the sentiment. He stayed at the sink a moment longer before he shook his head, shaking any unwelcome thoughts and speculations from his mind. It was late. He really should get to bed.
The next morning, Near dragged his feet up to the monitor room, where the remaining SPK members had already gotten to work. He sat in his usual spot on the floor, noting the usual cold of the tile. The building and the equipment may have been high tech, but the heating system took a while to kick in in the early morning hours. He slid his body lower onto the floor, stretching his arms and spine against the icy tiles. Near laid on his back and counted the holes in the ceiling panels. So far, nobody had approached him with any information pertaining to the Kira investigation. The last he’d been informed, the remaining members of the mafia had been killed and their most recent hideout blown up by Mello himself.
Mello, with a trigger hooked up to an explosive rig, in an attempt to regain control of the situation. Literary analysis never had been his strongest point of education at Wammy’s House, but Near knew there was a metaphor in there, some kind of poetic irony.
He died how he lived or some crap like that.
If he didn’t die, however. If he managed to escape in a miraculous twist of fate, Near knew it wasn’t far off for him to make contact with the SPK soon. Any time now, really. The phone could ring, the alarms could start blaring and bathe the monitor room flashes of red, there could be just a knock on the door.
If Mello did survive, he was all alone now.
Near rubbed his tired eyes with his sleeves, though the sensation only added to the irritation rather than provide relief. He buried his face in his hands and pressed his cold fingers to his eyes instead, finding a little more relief in that. “81…” he mumbled.
Gevanni, who happened to be passing by Near when he mumbled the numbers, turned and looked at him a little confused. “81?”
“I suspect Mello will be contacting us soon,” Near spoke more clearly now, clearly addressing everybody in the room. “Please do inform me, should that happen.” He carefully lifted his hands from his face, hoping the release of pressure and gradual increase of light onto his closed eyes wouldn’t feel too unpleasant, then dropped his arms above his head. Gevanni crossed the room to his desk.
“Why would he contact us?” Lidner rolled her chair back from the desk to have a better view of Near, who didn’t pay any attention to her movement.
“I believe you are most likely to be contacted, Lidner. Mello’s predictable, and he knows you best out of all of the agents here.” Near flatly ignored her question.
“How do you even know he’s alive?” Lidner asked, her tone more interrogational than anyone expected. The question earned her looks from both Gevanni and Rester. “The building he was in blew up. Soichiro Yagami survived the initial blast, sure, but he died in hospital care.”
Silence. Nothing but the dissonant hum of computers and the buzzing of lights overhead. The piping in the walls crackled as the heating finally kicked in.
“If you really believe Mello would blow up a building from the inside without an escape plan, then I may need to rethink how well you and Mello really know each other.” Near’s voice finally cut through the tension the question had created, his statement marked by a pointed side-glance in Lidner’s direction.
Lidner didn’t appear offended, nor defensive, simply neutral as she turned back to her work without a word.
Gevanni watched the tense exchange from his desk, then finally sank into his chair when it came to an end. He rolled his chair towards Rester and leaned over slightly. “81?”
“He’s counting the holes in the ceiling panels. Every panel is divided into four smaller sections. Nine holes by nine holes each. 81,” Rester replied, barely looking up from the files displayed on screen.
Gevanni raised his brows and looked from Rester to Near, then back to Rester. “He does that a lot, huh,” he finally concluded.
“Every time he gets bored in a building.” Rester stopped typing for a moment to give Gevanni his attention. “Imagine the airport when he gets bored with his toys.”
Gevanni puffed out his chest and stretched his arms back, seemingly exhausted just by the idea of it. “I guess that makes sense.” He returned to his computer, casting occasional glances in Near’s direction, who remained on the ground, mostly motionless, all day. An almost unsettling sight.
Evening came, and Near hadn’t really moved from his spot on the ground apart from changing positions every so often and begrudgingly sitting up when Rester asked him to drink. Gevanni had turned in for the night about half an hour earlier, and Lidner had left headquarters quite a bit ago. She hadn’t given a reason, and Near hadn’t demanded one of her. An unspoken agreement between the two: If she left, she had good reason to. She’d never given him reason to question her whereabouts, after all. Lidner was reliable.
“Near.” Rester’s voice cut through whatever deductive daydream he’d been having, and Near turned his heavy head to give him the fullest attention he could. “It’s late,” Rester continued once he felt sure that Near was listening.
Near turned his head away from Rester to stare at the large digital clock on the wall. It took a moment to adjust his eyes.
10:30 pm.
“No, it’s not,” he finally replied.
Rester’s mouth formed a thin line in the dissatisfied frown that carved itself into his face. “It’s 3 am in Winchester,” he attempted a different approach.
“So? It’s 6 am in the Kanto region of Japan, and last I checked our case was in Japan, not England,” Near argued back and rolled onto his stomach. He stretched an arm out and ran his fingers along the spaces between the tiles.
“We don’t work against the clock.”
“Maybe we should.” Near’s head lolled to the side, resting on his other arm.
“Near.” Rester’s voice was stern now, heavy and laced with concern.
Near only grumbled in response and buried his face in his arms, moving his whole entire body away from Rester. “I hate England,” Near murmured into his creased shirt.
“I know,” Rester’s voice softened, almost imperceptible, but Near heard the shift. “Come on. Bed.”
Near protested weakly, but finally sat up when he realised Rester wasn’t going away. He sat, slouched and unmoving for a moment, until he outstretched his arm, signalling Rester to help him up. Rester obliged, providing his arm for stability as Near stretched his legs and stood for the first time in hours. Near steadied himself before following the hand on his shoulder to the elevator. He hated the light, but he could hardly take the stairs. A shame, really, he thought as the elevator dinged. The concrete steps were probably cold. A cold and firm ground to walk on. If it wasn’t for the steps.
Rester brought Near to his room and waited for the definite click of the door closing before he headed to his own room.
On the other side of the door, Near waited for the definite click of Rester’s door closing before he stepped away. As much as his body demanded it, as much as his eyes, slightly red and irritated, strained to stay open, Near couldn’t allow himself to sleep. He wouldn’t be able to get to rest anyway, his exhausted mind always kept its gears turning for fear of rusting.
Rust got people killed.
Near aimlessly padded around the room for a while, rubbing his eyes periodically, always with his sleeves. His fingers found the familiar curl just next to his ear and he began to draw soothing circles into the strand, letting the hair twist tightly around his finger. After at least 15 minutes of aimlessly, mind-numbingly wandering around the same few square meters, Near grew rather bored. He ceased all movement and considered his options. Cards were off the table, Near frequently fell asleep among the towers he built. Marbles, cars, figurines, even his remote control toys seemed dreadfully boring when viewed through the lens of a young man determined to stay awake, stay on guard and keep his wits about him.
His eyes, burning and tired as they were, fell to his bedside table.
Near rarely entertained himself with electronic games. He indulged in toys that required batteries, sure, but he felt less of a calling for video games.
Near moved to the bed and dropped himself onto the mattress. Sitting, of course, laying down on the soft, cold mattress would only tempt fate.
He found the bedside table’s drawer and slid open the compartment. Inside it, at the very back, hidden from prying eyes, laid a relatively old, but pristinely kept, classic Nintendo gameboy. Near had only been in possession of it for a little more than ten years, a gift from Matt. He always found ways to sneak in what the orphanage considered ‘contraband’ from the outside.
Near pulled the gameboy from the drawer and briefly inspected the device. Two round buttons, two slim buttons, the cross shaped button that allowed full control of whatever was on the screen. The feel of the smooth, grey plastic in his hands brought back a strange sense of calm and unease.
Near pressed the start button and watched the screen as the gameboy turned on. It was a miracle the device still worked, he hadn’t exchanged the batteries in years, and most of the time it just sat, unused, in his bedside drawer.
He discovered that the loaded cartridge contained Tetris, as well as an old high score. He started the game.
Near wasn’t used to staying up. Much unlike his severely sleep deprived predecessor, if Near got tired, he slept. And while being awake at ungodly hours of the night wasn’t unusual for him, being awake the entire night leading up to that time was another beast entirely.
About an hour passed, several high scores were reached and subsequently beaten. To compensate for the lack of a pause button, Near played slightly below his capabilities to make sure he didn’t get locked into a round for too long.
He couldn’t allow himself to get too immersed, it would defeat the whole purpose of him being awake.
For several more hours, Near was kept awake by Tetris and a sickening feeling in his gut. Though the chances were slim, the explosion having resulted in Mello’s death was still a possibility. Lidner wasn’t wrong, Near had no way of knowing if Mello survived. It was guesswork. Near could be wrong. In which case, his prediction would be wrong. Mello wouldn’t contact anybody from the SPK. Mello wouldn’t contact anyone ever again.
However, Near knew Mello well. As he’d already chastised Lidner for, Mello wasn’t stupid enough to blow himself up. Sure, he did reckless things when cornered, that Near knew from their time at Wammy’s House. Mello played fast and loose with many things, but if Mello was going to die, he would do so on his terms. He wouldn’t allow himself to be cornered without any choices. Mello didn’t play with his life.
So, Near considered the possibility of Mello having somehow survived the explosion to be higher than Mello having lost the game so soon. Whether his prediction was based on fact or feeling, he couldn’t say. In all honesty, Near preferred not to think about that. Near liked objectivity. Anything else just confused him.
Regardless of how he came to the conclusion, Near worked with the more likely scenario. Mello must’ve escaped somehow. He must’ve. And if he did, he would be contacting the SPK anytime. Near hadn’t seen Mello in years, he’d heard of him periodically, heard directly from him even less. Anxious anticipation had settled in his chest, even if he tried to sleep, he’d just lay in bed, tangled uncomfortably in his covers, sweating from the warmth but too exhausted to move them off himself.
He’d rather not subject himself to that. The mattress already felt uncomfortably warm against his back, and Near briefly considered moving to the bathtub. The cool porcelain would probably do well to soothe his burning skin. But if he moved there, chances were that he’d relax too much, that he’d fall asleep, and that was the absolute last thing he wanted to do.
He couldn’t miss it if Mello turned up.
The game reminded Near of its existence by chirping out the losing jingle, and Near’s eyes refocused. Even playing intentionally badly, the score still looked pathetic on screen. Near set the gameboy on his lap and rubbed his eyes. The way they felt, the stinging, the burn — Near couldn’t stand it. The pressure from his palms gave him a different sensation, at least, one that had to be close enough to relief to count. Even though removing the pressure felt like the worst thing in the world, he dragged his hands down his face and stood up. The ground, covered in rough, red carpet, didn’t feel quite as pleasant as he’d hoped it would, and he padded out into the hallway.
Cold.
He wanted cold.
Anything cold.
His eyes burned so badly.
Near left his room and made his way through the hall to the small fridge in the storage room. There was a fridge in the kitchen as well, but the mini fridge ran colder, and the more confined space made him feel just slightly more at ease. He sat in the corner where a shelf and the wall met, conveniently right in front of the fridge, as he did relatively often in the middle of the night. The storage room had an analog clock, ticking steadily.
2:18 am.
Give or take.
Near rubbed his eyes again. He felt just awful. He’d basically been dragging his body around behind him rather than possessing it in its entirety and it was starting to wear on him. His fingers found the handle and he gave the door a gentle tug to open. He rested his head against the wall and felt the cool air brush against his skin. He didn’t stay as long as he might have liked to, but he felt his eyelids grow heavy again, and as soon as that happened, he stood up.
He stood up and kicked the fridge door shut, then stretched his tired limbs. His arms reached above his head, he felt his spine uncurl and he dropped his arms again. His sleeves covered his hands, and his fingers found the seams. Near stood in the storage room for a moment longer before making any attempts to leave. His legs obeyed him, if reluctantly, and carried him out into the dark hall. He wondered if he'd woken Rester up.
He’d just reached his bedroom door, when a gun clicked behind Near’s head. The sound, so crisp and resonant, shot through the mental fog and sent an adrenaline-filled shiver down his spine.
“You know what I’m here for,” a familiar voice commanded from behind him. A voice that finally soothed Near’s nervous system upon recognition.
“Good to know you’re alive,” Near responded, then turned around, finding himself with a gun pointed at his forehead. “Mello.”
The blonde man, a good chunk taller than Near remembered him, wore a thick coat that reeked of smoke and perfume, disguising his slender figure within the boxy shape it provided, but Near would recognise him anywhere. Beneath the heavy hood, he noted Mello’s face. Twisted with unveiled contempt and scarred on one side.
“You look like shit,” Mello said in place of a greeting.
Near shrugged. “Comes from working, I suppose. So do you.”
Mello grimaced. “Comes from being blown from a building.”
“That was a stupid thing to do,” Near replied and tilted his head to pay more attention to the movement behind Mello. “Rester, please lower your gun.”
Mello snapped his head around and found Rester standing in a doorway a few meters behind him, pointing his gun directly at him. “I can’t do that, Near,” Rester said, voice tight and eyes fixed directly on his potential target.
“I know what you’re here for, Mello. I’m not going to give you any trouble,” Near spoke again. The firmness in his voice sounded unfamiliar to Mello. His head turned back to look at Near, who had lowered his head slightly and now stared at both men with intensity. “But, if you’re going to shoot me, go ahead and shoot.” He locked eyes with Mello, the gun just an inch from his head and disregarded entirely. “Commander Rester, don’t make me repeat myself. Please lower your gun.”
Rester hesitated for a few long seconds, weighing his options. Then, slowly, cautiously, Rester lowered his gun, then holstered it. Mello waited a moment longer, his glare bouncing from Near to Rester a few times. He watched the man holster his weapon. His expression shifted from cold, harsh contempt to something resembling resignation, and he dropped his arm to his side. “Where is it.” The words came out pointed, like a threat to raise the gun again at the faintest sign of defiance.
“Rester.” Near ignored Mello’s demand and turned his attention to Rester again. “As you were, please.”
Rester, although visibly displeased with the order, nodded. “Good night, Near.” Tension in his voice.
Near waited for Rester’s door to click shut, then returned his attention to Mello. “I have it. It’s the only copy.” He opened his bedroom door and entered the room. Mello followed and shut the door behind him. The gameboy still laid on top of the covers.
“You still have that old thing?” Mello asked, the surprise in his voice softening the typically cold tone. He crossed the room and lifted the gameboy from the bed, sitting down in its place. Mild fascination for the outdated device replaced some of the resentment behind his eyes. “Matt upgrades his stuff all the time, I haven’t seen anything this retro in ages.”
Near sat on the edge of the bed as well, maintaining a decent distance between the two. He pulled up a leg to his chin and rested his head on his knee. “I don’t use it much.”
“Then just throw it away, it’s basically garbage by now anyway.” Mello turned it in his hands.
“It’s not garbage,” Near argued. “I like it.”
“Didn’t take you for the kind to have keepsakes.”
Near shrugged. “This one’s important to me.”
Mello let out something between a scoff and a chuckle. “Oh, so the tin man found his heart.”
“Matt got it for me.”
“I know.”
“After—”
“I remember.” Mello cut him off, the tension in his face and voice much clearer again. Near looked down and fiddled with the seams of his shirt. He said nothing, and one hand made its way to his face to rub his tired eyes.
“How is Matt?” Near asked quietly, and the small shift made his voice just a bit more recognisable to Mello.
“Like you care.” Sharp. Accusing.
“I do.”
Mello grimaced before he relented. “He’s fine. Still smoking.”
Near leaned forward a little, placing his hands between his knees. “Marlboro, I take it?”
Mello leaned back on his hands and let his head hang back a bit. “Yep.” The thick hood slid from his head.
“Light, at least?”
“Nope. And they’re called Gold now.” Mello intensely regarded the artificial pattern on the ceiling.
Near watched Mello carefully. “Does he know?”
Mello glanced at Near out of the corner of his eye. “Know what.”
“That you’re alive? Not dead?” Near stared up at Mello with his dark, interrogating eyes. “That you’re here?”
“God, you’re so nosy,” Mello scoffed and turned his gaze upwards again. “Of course he knows. Who do you think pulled me from the building?”
Near considered the question for a moment. “I wouldn’t know who else.”
“Speaking of which,” Mello grumbled, clearly not thrilled about whatever he was about to pull from his coat. Near sat up a little and pulled both his legs to his chest, now supported by the headboard. “Matt wanted me to give you this. You know how he is about going outside.” Mello produced a scuffed, but likely fully functioning Nintendo 3DS and handed it to Near.
Near blinked, taking in what was just placed in his hands. “Thank… you?” He turned it in his hands and lifted it to eye level, inspecting it carefully.
“Thank Matt, he’s the one who gets all sentimental and crap—” Mello interrupted himself when he spared another glance in Near’s direction. “What the hell are you doing?”
“None of these buttons are labeled, how am I meant to know what they do?” Near mumbled, mildly confused by the new device. He remembered barely having gotten the hang of the gameboy. Maybe it would be easier now, after all, he was older and even used a laptop with only minimal assistance. A laptop must be much more complex than some kind of gaming device.
Near was usually good with games.
“You’re meant to figure it out, the games tell you which buttons to press,” Mello explained, a little impatient. “God, Matt should’ve just come himself if he wanted you to have it so bad…”
“I would’ve liked that,” Near mumbled, more to himself than to Mello in particular, and lowered the Nintendo to his lap.
Mello’s expression suddenly soured, a mix of agitation and confusion. “What?”
“I haven’t seen him in a long time,” Near explained, and Mello didn’t let him continue.
“Oh, cut the crap,” he spat. “Stop pretending like you gave a shit about anyone at Wammy’s House.”
“I di—”
“No, you didn’t! You’ve always been like this, you’ve never cared about anything, don’t pretend to start now! You didn’t even care when L died!” The words came out faster and much louder than either of the two expected. Near had lowered his head when Mello finally looked at him with wide, infuriated eyes, waiting for a response, a reaction, anything.
“I care about things.” Near’s long, almost overgrown bangs hid his eyes from view. His voice came out strained, but ever so calm. “I don’t know how to show it. I can’t be emotional like you can be. That doesn’t mean I don’t…” His lips formed a straight line, barring the next words from being spoken.
Mello just scoffed in response. “Sure. You always have to know better.”
“I cared when Linda did our pictures. I liked those pictures. She was nice,” Near said instead. “I cared when Matt got me the gameboy. You two snuck out and he won it at the fairground you went to. He taught me how to use it. I care about my cards, and Rubik’s cubes, and dice,” he listed, prepared to keep going.
Mello shook his head, frustrated with Near’s lack of understanding. “You can’t compare that! You care about… about pictures, and your stupid toys, and—!”
“I cared when A died.”
Right.
Near saw it happen.
When the gunshot echoed through the halls of Wammy’s House, everybody came running, and there he stood.
This new kid, small for his age, who hadn’t really spoken much to anybody yet, stood just a few feet away, speckled head to toe in a thick mist of blood.
Somebody else’s blood.
Near didn’t speak for weeks, if not months after. Mello remembered how hoarse Near’s voice sounded when he finally got some semblance of words past his lips.
“You…” Mello turned his head. He couldn’t stand to look at Near. “I guess.”
Mello and Near rarely ever talked on an even keel. Normally, Near would say something that set Mello off, and Mello would yell until he either got it out of his system or was talked down.
For the first time, Mello was left speechless without also bursting at the seams with hot, painful anger.
“Here.” The sliding sound of the bedside drawer opening broke through the stiff silence in the room. Mello looked over again and watched as Near produced the photograph from the drawer. He outstretched his hand for Mello to take the picture. Mello took it from him, keeping direct eye contact with Near, who stared back just as intently through his bangs. “This is the only remaining photograph, and, as I said, there are no copies of it,” Near reiterated. Mello turned the picture in his hands, on the back, the words:
Dear Mello
“I’ve contacted all the members of Wammy’s House and anyone else from your past who would know your face,” Near assured and slid the drawer shut. “It’s not a hundred percent perfect, but I think it’s safe to say that you won’t be killed by the notebook.”
Mello stared at the photograph. “You knew I’d come.”
“I figured I’d be giving you the photograph sooner or later, yes.” Near’s hand found his hair. He coiled a strand tightly around his finger.
Mello clenched his jaw, a stinging tension and familiar heat in his chest flared up again. That smug bastard. “I have no intention of joining forces with you, you know.”
“I know.”
“But,” The tension that stung in his ribcage subsided a little. “It wouldn’t sit right with me to just take the picture with nothing in return.”
Mello stood up and stuffed the picture into his pocket. Near looked up properly, raised head and all, with a slightly surprised expression painting his features.
“The killer notebook, it belongs to a shinigami. Whoever touches it is able to see a God of death. The notebook I had previously belonged to a shinigami, perhaps even Kira himself.” Near stared at Mello, unblinking, unwavering. He listened to the absurd story Mello told him, and Mello could see it in his eyes. He believed every word he said. “Also,” he continued. “Some of the rules written inside are fake.”
“Some?”
“That should settle my debt.” Mello turned on his heel.
“Thank you, Mello,” Near spoke, seemingly indifferent to the turned back. “I should tell you: With your help, I’ve been able to greatly narrow down my suspects for Kira.” Mello couldn’t see Near’s expression, not that it would tell him much anyway, but that definite tone in his voice had returned.
“Near…” Mello grumbled, his hand itching to grab the gun again. He really hated how Near provoked him. “I am not a tool for you to use to solve the puzzle.” The contempt in his voice returned as well, and he reached for the doorknob.
“Mello.” Near’s voice made him stop in his tracks. “Humor me.”
“What do you want,” Mello asked, impatient, his back still turned.
“The SPK, their murders,” Near started and gauged by any miniscule reaction Mello showed how to proceed. He didn’t move a muscle. “I suppose you were behind it.”
“Suppose I was.” Not an admission of guilt, not denial, either.
“Why?”
Mello didn’t have an answer. Not any answer that sounded good, at least. “To even the playing field.”
“You had an entire mafia in the palm of your hand.”
“They’re dead.”
“They weren’t before. You couldn’t have known—”
“Don’t tell me what I know and what I don’t.” Mello spun around again and found the gun in hand before he’d even thought to grab it. “They’re mafia. You know just as well as I do the risk associated with that,” he argued. “I took a calculated action with the assumption that sooner or later they would die, and they did. We’re evenly matched now.”
Near let the answer settle. He hadn’t really considered him and Mello uneven. Near had L’s legacy, government funding and the SPK to speak of. But Mello had action when Near had calm. Mello had made a name of his own, he’d made connections, he’d earned respect. His name alone could strike fear into people’s hearts, and fear was a powerful motivator, far more powerful than anything Near possessed.
But Near also knew that Mello wanted everything Near had. He wanted the position, he wanted the men to command, he’d worked so hard for it and yet Near was the ‘true’ successor. Near got the prize.
Near sort of hoped Mello didn’t consider ‘leveling the playing field’ payback for the things Near took from him. Near couldn’t say for certain that he wanted them in the first place.
“And Ill Ratt?” Near asked and pulled the sleeves of his shirt over his palms. His brows furrowed, and even though he’d asked Mello to humor him, he suddenly felt more uncomfortable than before. Like he’d rather never know the answer than sit in the silence the question created. “Everybody else died of a heart attack. Ill Ratt shot himself.”
There it was.
That dreaded silence.
Mello stared at Near with an entirely neutral, unreadable expression, like he’d expected the question to come up.
“Ratt was a decent spy. He was also a huge prick.” Mello could hardly say how often he spoke ill of Near. “I don’t like pricks, and I don’t like spies. He got what was coming to him.”
“Even if you were the one to hire him?”
Mello shrugged.
Near hummed. He had an answer now. If a partial one.
“Why are you so interested? As I recall, you didn’t think much of Ratt either.” Mello crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. “Or so he told me.”
Near bit the inside of his cheek. Again, Mello was being so calm. Confrontational, as always, but calm. It was unsettling. “He aimed the gun at me shortly before he shot himself.”
Mello tapped his finger on the gun, still tight in his grip. “Did he.”
“If you don’t believe me, you can ask Lidner.”
The tapping ceased. “Why would I ask Lidner?”
“You smell like her perfume.” Near tilted his head to the side, like the answer was obvious. “Specifically like her perfume and Matt’s cigarettes. It’s not a difficult conclusion to come to; you’ve been hiding out with Lidner and with Matt.”
Mello furrowed his brows. Near knew he didn’t like when he was read like that. He didn’t enjoy having people in his head.
“Well.” Mello curled his finger over the side of the gun instead of tapping it. “It’s likely he tried to take advantage of the situation. Shoot you and blame it on the notebook controlling his actions.”
Near nodded slowly, eyes fixed on Mello. “You got to him first.”
“Don’t misunderstand.” Mello raised his voice and lifted his head slightly higher. He glared down at Near. “I couldn’t care less if he’d shot you. But he was never going to leave this building alive, one way or the other.”
“Of course,” Near lowered his head, though his eyes still pierced through his bangs.
“Are we done here or do you want to ask me more pointless questions?” Mello asked, impatience and irritation laced his words.
“You have what you came for.” Near gestured toward Mello’s coat pocket, the one he’d stuffed the picture in. “If that’s the only business you had with me, Mello, you’re free to leave anytime.”
“Right.” Mello turned again and finally opened the door. Before stepping out, he halted. He didn’t turn his head when he spoke. “You know, now that we’re evenly matched, I wonder which one of us will get to Kira first.”
Near’s fingers found his hair. “The race is on, then.”
“We’re headed for the same destination.” The crinkling of foil punctuated the pause in Mello’s speech. “I’ll be waiting for you when you get there.”
With those words, Mello stepped out and closed the door behind him. Near sat there on the bed for a while, entirely still, letting the situation settle in. He hadn’t seen Mello in years, let alone held a conversation with him. Especially one so cordial. Mello seemed more frustrated than outright angry. At least for the most part.
But Near had answers now. Ratt had had it out for him, now he knew for sure. And Mello instrumented the rest. At least it wasn’t Kira. That’s what Near kept telling himself.
At least it wasn’t Kira.
And he didn’t know if that was a good thing.
Near didn’t hear anything from Mello over the next few weeks. He kept busy, though, spent his days surrounded by data and information to scan through. Rester had tried bringing up Mello’s visit, hoping Near would give him some kind of information on what had transpired. Mello’s voice carried quite far when he got angry, so Rester heard snippets of the conversation through the walls, but he could only really guess what Mello was there for.
Near let Rester in on most details, the important details, the ones relevant to the case. The fake rules, the shinigami. He kept the more personal bits of conversation to himself. Rester already knew about several events that had taken place at Wammy’s House, he shouldn’t have to concern himself with any more. He knew enough, and most of it was in the distant past as far as Near was concerned.
No use drudging up the past.
Near ran the night through his mind over and over again, and the only real conclusion he kept coming to was that he wished he’d told Mello to say hi to Matt for him. He was sure it was implicit, though. Mello cared for Matt as much as Near did, if not more. And while Mello always hated that Matt treated Near better than he did, Mello would also not keep the two from interacting. Even if he had to play the messenger.
That’s not who Mello was.
Lidner, to be left alone, was the only one not to bug Near about that night. She came in, did her work, and went home. No personal questions, no uncomfortable or concerned looks, maybe a pointed glance in his direction when he said something in particular, but she refocused on her work immediately after, just fast enough for Near not to notice.
Rester and Gevanni noticed a shift, of course.
Near wasn’t known to be particularly affectionate with anybody, let alone the people he worked with. Apart from Rester, which was a different dynamic entirely, Near kept a strictly professional distance from the remaining SPK members. Even more so since the other nine were killed. But the distance became greater toward Lidner.
Gevanni figured it might just be because Lidner kept scheduling meetings with major world leaders first thing in the morning after Near expressly asked her not to.
Rester didn’t make a habit of guessing on matters pertaining to Near and his behavior. He did, however, listen and occasionally weigh in on any speculations Gevanni happened to share.
Lidner still regularly left headquarters early. She still never gave a reason, and Near didn’t demand one of her. This was the unspoken agreement between the two. She’d never given him reason to question her whereabouts.
Lidner started packing up early again about a week after the visit. She didn’t give a reason.
“Lidner,” Near’s voice called out, and the clacking of the woman’s heels on her way out slowed before they came to a stop. Rester and Gevanni turned their heads. This was new. “Where are you going?” Near didn’t look at her when he spoke, his focus seemed entirely consumed by the house of cards he was building.
“I have something important I need to attend to,” Lidner replied and turned to face Near. Near didn’t return the favor and silence fell over the monitor room for a moment. “How important, exactly?” He asked, handling two cards with intention, preparing to add them to the stack.
“Important enough that I can’t stay. If my work is a concern, I can assure you it’s finished for the day,” Lidner responded with perfectly practiced professionalism. “If you have additional assignments for me, you know how to reach me.”
Near hummed. “I understand.”
Lidner turned to leave and made it a few steps before Near spoke again. “Lidner.”
She stopped again, more abruptly this time. She didn’t bother to turn her head when she spoke. “Yes, Near?”
“In the future, I would like to be informed when you have to leave early and your whereabouts during that time.” Near placed the pair of cards on the ever growing structure. “I can’t have agents disappearing when I may need them.”
Rester and Gevanni exchanged a look.
‘Did you know about this?’ Gevanni mouthed, and Rester shook his head no, his expression painted in the same surprise as Gevanni’s. The two rather puzzled men watched the scene unfold before them with undivided attention.
“Of course, Near,” Lidner answered calmly. The hiss of the automatic door punctuated her departure as it opened and shut behind her, leaving the monitor room in silence.
Nothing but the dissonant hum of computers and the buzzing of lights overhead.